But beauty is set apart, beauty is cast by the sea, a barren rock, beauty is set about with wrecks of ships.
You will not see that desire begets love, until it all flames into one concise and metallic blaze.
Sing and your hell is heaven, your heaven less hell.
Love that I bear within my breast how is my armour melted how my heart
The whole white world is ours.
For you are abstract, making no mistake, slurring no word in the rhythm you make, the poem, writ in the air.
Thoth, Hermes, the stylus, the palette, the pen, the quill endure, though our books are a floor of smouldering ash under our feet.
The things I have are nameless, old and true; they may not be named; few may live and know.
Our minds can go no further. The human imagination is capable of no further expression of beauty than the carved owl of Athene, the archaic, marble serpent, the arrogant selfish head of the Acropolis Apollo.
Escape from the power of the hunting pack, and to know that wisdom is best and beauty sheer holiness.
Let Love step down, open the clasped hands, forfeit the thorny crown, retrieve the garment that was whole, body and spirit one, spirit and soul.
O do not weep, she says, for ages past I was and I endure
There's a black rose growing in your garden.
Think of the moment you count most foul in your life; conjure it, supplicate, pray to it; your face is bleak, you retract, you dare not remember it.
Music sets up ladders, it makes us invisible, it sets us apart, it lets us escape; but from the visible there is no escape.
Alas, day, you brought light, You trailed splendour You showed us god: I salute you, most precious one, But I go to a new place, Another life.
The Christos-image is most difficult to disentangle from its art-craft junk-shop paint-and-plaster medieval jumble of pain-worship and death-symbol.
Cheat me not with time, with the dull ache of flesh, for all flesh turns, even the loveliest ankle and frail thigh, to bitterest dust.
Why wait for Death to mow? why wait for Death to sow us in the ground?
O ruthless, perilous, imperious hate, you can not thwart the promptings of my soul.
Dead men would start and move toward me to learn of love.
She did not look at the daffodils. They didn't mean anything. She looked at the daffodils. She said, 'Thank you for the daffodils.
The fallen hazel-nuts, Stripped late of their green sheaths, The grapes, red-purple, Their berries Dripping with wine, Pomegranates already broken, And shrunken fig, And quinces untouched, I bring thee as offering.
There is no man can take, there is no pool can slake, ultimately I am alone; ultimately I am done.
I spit honey out of my mouth: nothing is second-best after the sweet of Eros.
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